


Home for the Holidays

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Sherlock Rarepairs Bingo 2018 [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Kwanzaa, present
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 04:48:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: Sherlock Rarepairs Holiday Bingo - Kwanzaa and present





	Home for the Holidays

The street was a fluttery flurry of snow. Children running by were wrapped up in layers of warm wool, and each house on the street had been decked with twinkly lights, proudly displaying their seasonal best. Off in the distance, a peaceful rendition of Joy to the World was being sung by evening carolers. 

 

Despite the piping hot mug clasped in her hand, Sally Donovan was not in the holiday spirit. Her nose was red and sore from standing out in the bitter cold, and melted snow had seeped into the tops of her boots. To make matters worse, a cab skid to a stop in front of the taped-off crime scene, and Sally could see two men climbing out. Her hand clenched around the mug, but she made no move to stop them as they entered the scene. 

"Merry Christmas, Sally!" 

John's greeting was bright and chipper and grated on Sally's nerves. She'd never particularly liked the holidays. She felt there was a note of disingenuity to all the holly and jolly being thrown around so casually, and she didn't care for it. Instead of saying this, however, she inclined her head in acknowledgement and prayed there'd be no follow up. She should have known better.

"Sergeant Donovan reviles Christmas, John. No need to waste your niceties here." 

Sherlock's usual disdain was missing from the remark, and Sally wondered what on earth held his acerbic tongue in check. He wasn't usually one to go in for the holidays either, so it wasn't an innate sense of goodwill attributable to the season. She decided to add the inquiry to the ever-growing list of things she'd never understand about the man, and focus her attention on replying to John. 

"You as well, though it is technically New Year so..." She hadn't meant to sound haughty, but she rather feared it had come across that way. John's face had dropped, and that muscle in his jaw was twitching. "So uh, yeah. Happy New Year's Eve! You two have plans later?"

She winced at her own too-chipper voice. This really was not her area of expertise. John, however, looked amused and slightly pleased. 

"Nothing too exciting. The party scene's not really our speed. Probably spend the evening at home if this doesn't turn into a mad chase around London." 

Sally noted that his voice was tinged with yearning. Try though he might, John Watson was fooling no one. He clearly hoped not to spend a quiet evening at home when there were thrills to be had. Weather be damned!

It took a moment to realize that she had been asked the same question. 

"Plans? No, I haven't really got anything on tonight. Philip said he might..."

"He won't." Sherlock cut in. 

Sally took a deep breath and tried not to feel so hurt. She'd known Phil wouldn't leave his family on New Year's Eve, but what harm was there in pretending he might? She felt resentment welling up inside. Why did Sherlock always have to interfere, and why was she always so affected?

John was looking disapprovingly at Sherlock, who seemed at a loss.

"What?" Sherlock asked. After a few moments, he asked in an undertone Sally was certain she was not meant to hear. "Bit not good?"

John, hiding a smile, replied, "Bit not good, yeah. Not really our place to comment."

The detective gazed at his friend for a moment before turning back to Sally. 

"Apologies. I didn't mean to offend you." 

The words were slow and sounded foreign on his tongue, but for their newness, they were deeply sincere all the same. Sally found herself forgiving him before she really considered it. Strange things always happened this time of year. 

Trying to diffuse the tension, John asked the question Sally had been dreading all night. 

"So, what is it about Christmas you hate anyway?" he asked.  

Sally shifted her weight while she considered how to answer. She didn't much feel like getting to the heart of the matter, and the truth seemed too heavy for lighthearted work banter.  

"She doesn't want to talk about it." 

Surprisingly, Sherlock was the one to respond. 

"How do you know? You can't just go around answering for people. It's not on."  

Sally cut off John's tirade. 

"No. He's right. I don't really talk about it much." 

Her toe made a loud crunching noise as it scraped along the ice-crusted snowdrift abutting the curb. 

"I bounced around a lot growing up. I didn't come to London until I was thirteen, and I certainly never celebrated Christmas. Later on, I just never really got into it, I suppose." 

The truth was that a distant relation had been identified when Sally was thirteen, and she had been shipped to London. Her American accent had made her an easy target on the schoolyard, so she'd learned to assimilate quickly. Though her accent had a tendency to get away from her when she'd had one too many drinks. 

John nodded, understanding her discomfort with the topic. Clearing his throat, he said, "We'll just head in then. Greg waiting?"

Sally nodded, appreciating his lack of follow-up questions. She was surprised when Sherlock didn't move to follow. 

"You go on. I'll just be a moment," he said. Though John narrowed his eyes in suspicion, he continued on and disappeared into the darkened building. 

Sally turned her guarded gaze to the detective, bracing herself. 

"I've had a private case these last few weeks."

Well, this was not the direction Sally had thought the conversation would take.  

"Is that why we haven't seen you around lately?" she asked, not knowing what else to say. 

Sherlock murmured his agreement. He seemed to be the uncomfortable one now. His eyes were fixed on his feet, and his shoulders were bowed. After a few moments, he seemed to make his decision. He stood up straight, and looked her directly in the eye.

"I had no idea you would be implicated in the case, though I find that I'm not sorry." He swallowed audibly. "I hope this may turn out to be a holiday present you can appreciate, Sergeant." 

He thrust a thick brown envelope into her hands, turned on his heel, and vanished into the building. 

On the front of the envelope, in Sherlock's distinctive scrawl, was written: Happy Kwanzaa. 

Sally turned the envelope over with shaking hands. Why he thought she would celebrate Kwanzaa was a mystery. She knew him well enough to know it would be based off of more than her skin color, but she shuddered to think that he had discovered her past. How could he possibly know she was American?

The glue came unstuck under hand and the flap dislodged itself, allowing her to reach her trembling hand inside and remove several papers. The first was a letter written by a Ms. Whitcombe. Sally had never heard of her. She decided she could read the letter later.  

The next was a photograph of a baby, bundled in a worn afghan. The baby's eyes were almost closed and a peaceful smile painted its way across her face. The baby had one or two small wisps of hair that were obviously charged with static from the afghan as they pointed off in all directions. It made her smile. 

The third piece of paper wiped away the smile. 

It was a small official-looking sheet. As she skimmed the document, she realized it was a birth certificate. It stated that Sally Whitcombe was born at 9:29 am on July 21, 1984 to Ms. Cynthia Whitcombe.  

Sally barely took in the remaining pages, which seemed to be page after page of information regarding Cynthia Whitcombe, her family, and her history over the past thirty-odd years. 

The final page was again in the detective's handwriting, and the message was blessedly short.  

_Sally,_

_It was never my place to learn these things about you. I did so in the course of a case, and I stopped when I realized you were the little girl I had been hired to find. It is even further from my business to implore you to meet with Ms. Whitcombe, but I do it anyway. She is staying in town at the Haymarket Hotel until January the 4th._

_Sherlock_

_P.S. Kwanzaa is quite an important holiday to Ms. Whitcombe. She described it as a time of unity and thanks giving. A time to recommit to family. She is very much hoping to see you. Forgive me, but I know that you feel your lack of family quite keenly this time of year, but you may be surprised to find that you have an entire community waiting to welcome you into their fold._

Sally radioed in to let Lestrade know that she would be leaving early. Greg laughingly responded that Sherlock had already told him, and Clarkson was on his way out to replace her. With her heart much lighter than it had been that morning, Sally flagged a passing cab and directed it to the Haymarket Hotel. 

Maybe there was some cheer to be had this time of year. 


End file.
